


Explosions in the heart

by hp-rbiim (rbiim)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry and Draco squabbling, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Magical Cores, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Unresolved Tension, accidental magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 01:46:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19367668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rbiim/pseuds/hp-rbiim
Summary: It's back to Hogwarts and Malfoy is annoying as ever.





	Explosions in the heart

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you keyflight790 and orpheous87 for betaing this chapter!
> 
> Nonnie on tumblr had sent me this prompt: (powerful) harry gets upset and loses control over his magic. Draco stops him before he blows. (Maybe in eighth year) and I found myself quickly deep into it.

So, the day goes like this:

‘Potter.’

‘Malfoy.’

‘Both of you, stop it.’

A day like any other.

And just like any other day, it was par for the course of ending in altercation. Malfoy had allowed Harry first access to the vervain in Potions class, which consequently made Harry stare (very suspiciously), which of course grated on Malfoy’s nerves, which resulted in a venomous _what_ , which started the day.... well, with a decidedly angry traction.

‘You’re really good at this, mate.’ Ron had said. He was chewing on a quill, although there was a hint of nervousness in his remark, there was a much larger humour hiding behind his pearly white teeth.

‘Thanks, _Ron_ . This _potion_ — _,_ Harry redirected, knowing full well that Ron had meant his interaction with Malfoy, '—is going brilliantly.’

Ron had laughed at that, and Harry had told him to—

‘—just stir the damn cauldron.’

The second bout came along during Defence against the Dark Arts. Harry had been called up by Bill Weasley — the very cool interim professor that McGonagall took on whilst she located an apt not-Gilderoy-Lockhart to permanently fill the position — up onto the stage to “demonstrate” a Patronus charm. Most, though not Malfoy, cheered enthusiastically at the wispy spiraling stag dancing about the room.

Malfoy had clapped, very reluctantly, a slog of hands as they moved to meet their counterpart in the middle. His pale grey eyes assessed the ceiling, rather than Harry's demonstration, as if a Patronus wasn’t at all that impressive to look at, most especially to someone like Malfoy!

Harry’s grip on his wand had tightened, he was indignant — an ugly feeling welling up in his chest out of his control. Which made his subsequent _Bombarda_ demonstration forceful enough to warrant Bill trying to placate him with a ‘now, now, don’t get too excited, Harry,’ lecture, which made his stage embarrassment much more monumental than it should have been.

‘You go, Harry! Don’t let Bill stop you!’ was Ginny’s response. The eighth years had been boxed in with the seventh years, due to lack of staff. Bill accused Ginny of abusing family relations to talk back to her professor. She probably hoped she could wink out of trouble, because she did so with a devilish grin reminiscent of the twins. Harry wished he could have been as light-hearted about things as she was. 

Instead, Harry wished he could slam his head against the Boggart cabinet.

They had begun pairing up for duelling exercises — Bill had enforced a rotation system so everyone had a fair chance against different levels of skill. When it was his turn to pair with Malfoy, Malfoy sighed. _Sighed!_ He sighed at him, great big inhale and exhale like it was the worst thing to ever happen to him. What was Malfoy’s problem? They were supposed to make up for the sake of inter-house unity, for the sake of life-debts, for the sake of, well — of everything else that happened in the war!

‘Excuse me?’ Malfoy gallivanted a wounded hand gesture on his chest with theatrical gusto. Harry shot a Stunning Charm at him, which he sidestepped with equal dramatics. ‘Problem, have I? Salazar, Potter, grow up. You’re the one whinging about it.’

Harry told him to stop using Salazar’s name like he was god, because he was a right bastard setting off Basilisks against innocent people, that he and his friends had to bloody stop in second year. At great risk too. Hermione had been petrified for fuck’s sake!

This only seemed to spur Malfoy on as he hid behind a _Protego_ with wide eyes. When the smoke of Harry’s Dust Blasting charm had eased, Malfoy’s pale grey eyes had morphed from understanding to a calculating glint.

‘Ah.’ Malfoy started, ‘I’m sorry.’ Harry had never heard him apologise before. ‘So, let’s get this straight, shall we? You wish to banish my House Founder and make me applaud you for it. Right. Why, if I knew you were going to get this upset over my lacklustre applauding earlier, I certainly would have clapped harder, just for you. Our _Hero_ .’

Malfoy had said it in such a bored, slow and patronising drawl, even amidst their duel, that it made him red in the face. ‘Fuck you, Malfoy.’ The subsequent _Stupefy_ from Harry was so powerful, it blasted Malfoy several steps back, even with his _Protego_ still up.

Leaving Malfoy a little less immaculate than before gave Harry a satisfaction he wished he didn’t revel so much in. 

Hermione didn’t say anything during lunch, but he knew she was judging. It was only when the chatter of the Great Hall filled in the space for Harry, that he realised Malfoy hadn’t used any offensive spells on him. The peas on his plate may have suffered the wrath of his fork.

Malfoy was looking down at him. This was supposed to be a year for inter-house unity, and Malfoy was ruining everything.

‘If you _must_ know,’ Hermione was balancing a newspaper and pumpkin juice on the table, the only part of her visible being her signature bushy brown hair, ‘Malfoy has been quite _un-nefarious_ this year.’

Ron had hummed an easy-going agreement behind his chicken, Dean shrugged a ‘no clue’, Seamus nodded a ‘he’s nefarious alright’ clearly missing Hermione’s operative “ _un_ ” remark and Neville, who was the most surprising of all said, ‘he’s not bad, actually.’

Hermione told him flies would enter his gaping mouth. Harry couldn’t understand how Hermione had been able to tell that his mouth had fallen open from behind her newspaper. Said newspaper dropped from her face only for her to give him a look that read suspiciously like a very long ‘we’ve been friends for seven years and you think I don’t know—‘ lecture, which Harry cut short by departing from lunch with the excuse of "Quidditch practice".

There was no Quidditch practice, Harry had been fibbing. He just needed to get away. Flying had always managed to lift his mood, and he hoped it would again today.

Except, Harry’s mood instead took a sharp cliff dive when his Firebolt exploded. That’s right, exploded. In his hands. ‘What the fuck— _what the fuck—_ ‘ Scorch marks had etched grooves into his skin, the leftover soot decorating the depressions in his hand. 

Harry knocked his equally-sooted glasses off with the part of his arm that didn’t sting with burns. There was a bitterness that made his eyes water, but it wasn’t because of the soot, or the burns. There, on the ground, blurry as it was, unmistakable, was his Firebolt, or ex-Firebolt really, seeing as it was a scattering of charred wood, debris and whatever else brooms were made out of. One of the last reminders of Sirius, in serious smithereens.

‘Brilliant. You’ve outdone yourself. You really, really have outdone yourself.’

There were a few sparks setting off the wood, a tell-tale trace of magic still alive, still kicking, which gave Harry hope enough to gather the remnants of his Firebolt. It hadn’t started this way. He’d brought the Firebolt down from his dorm room, made it all the way to the pitch (or really, whatever was left of the pitch), hadn’t even gotten on his broom. He was about to, sure, felt the excitement surge through his bones as he was preparing for liftoff. That’s when it exploded.

The wind started picking up, Harry could barely make out the gathering of clouds in one corner of the sky to register what was going to happen next.

 _‘Accio_ glasses! _Accio_ Firebolt!’ It didn’t work. _‘Accio_ Firebolt shards! _Accio_ Firebolt shards! _Accio_ Firebolt shards! Which worked better, but not enough. Harry could count the pieces he had retrieved with the fingers in his hand. It wasn’t enough. The rest of his Firebolt had scattered away into the wind.

Harry was breathless. The pounding tattoo of his heart in his chest had become loud and unforgiving. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t think. The dirt soaked into the fabric at his knees. He could feel that at least. His arms cradled the Firebolt remnants in his arms, eyes closed shut, wishing. Wishing for what exactly? Harry wasn’t sure, but it was clear, it wasn’t this.

He might have screamed, and a few bleachers may have subsequently exploded, but it mattered little. The Quidditch Pitch was ruined from the war anyway. No one would notice. No one came around the unrepaired sections of Hogwarts after the war.

Except Malfoy, apparently. When Harry turned around, he was there, there in the middle of the grass, staring at him. His fair blonde hair was whisking in the wind, a knit was present in the center of his furrowed brows, a face, Harry recognised, was of consternation, like Malfoy didn’t know what to do with himself. _Harry_ was the one that didn’t know what to do with himself. Malfoy shouldn’t even _be_ here. Malfoy’s hands were _empty_ , open. He didn’t have a broom with him, he wasn’t here to fly. Malfoy, Harry concluded, was bloody stalking him.

Perfect. Just what he needed. An awful rage reared its head at the perfect target to direct his sense of loss. 

Malfoy paled as he sensed the change in atmosphere.

‘Potter...’ He said, drawing out the R sound, like he was stalling.

 _‘Malfoy_ ,’ Harry responded, he was quick to cut the gap between them. This time, no one was there to tell Harry to stop. ‘Keep stalking me, and I promise you’ll end up just like those benches.’

Malfoy gasped, affronted. His demeanor was quick to change into a seething anger. ‘Careful, Potter. If you persist in assuming the world still revolves around you with _your_ capacity for emotional restraint, you may as well end up like your precious Firebolt!’

‘Say that again, Malfoy, I _dare_ you.’ 

‘You _first_ .’ Malfoy was quick to draw out his wand, once he saw Harry’s rapid approach. Malfoy had shouted the disarming spell before Harry could — for his arms were still occupied by cradling the Firebolt remnants. Harry saw it coming, and just like that, his Holly wand popped out of his hand for the first time in never.

Enraged, Harry barreled shoulder first into Malfoy’s chest. Shouting, Malfoy tried to angle away from him with a kick, to which Harry retaliated with a hook to his face. The Firebolt remnants scattered from his grip, while the two clambered at each other, yanking their opposing robes. 

Malfoy was still holding Harry’s wand. Harry demanded he give it back. Malfoy had refused, on grounds that it was positively ridiculous. Apparently, Harry was a volatile menace, and would probably murder him if he got the chance. Malfoy was right of course, but that didn’t stop Harry from slamming him against the dirt in a bid for the wands. Malfoy tossed them both out of his reach, and they rolled away from their scuffle, clattering along the overgrown grass.

Malfoy might have had the advantage of longer limbs, but Harry was stronger. After a dozen knees to the stomach, angry clutching of hair, sharp elbows, fists and headbutts on every imaginable surface of their bodies; Harry had managed to gain the upperhand and proceeded to pin Malfoy’s wrists to the dirt.

Malfoy scowled. His face was covered in stains, immaculate hair was mussed, loose grass woven into fair blonde locks, the corner of his lip was torn. So, _maybe_ the sight of winning against Malfoy made the pounding of his heart a little loud, and his blood rush to inappropriate places. It mattered little. The whole point was that Harry was exceptionally angry and Malfoy was a tosser.

Malfoy told him to get off, Harry had refused, on the grounds that it was positively ridiculous, because apparently, Malfoy was a volatile menace, a _stalker_ — _and —_ would probably murder him if he got the chance. Malfoy looked scandalised at having his words tossed back at him.

‘Ha, bloody _ha_ . Potter. You can twist my words all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re the one that accosted me for what — stalking you, as you say, which, by the way — I wasn’t, on this particular occasion, though true on prior accounts — this, was, I assure you, a coincidence on my part.' Malfoy paused to take a breath, only to resume with a scathing, 'Though, I can’t say the same for you.’

Annoyed and exhausted, Harry shot him a withering glare. Malfoy flinched. _Coward_ . Feeling a little guilty, and a little less angry, Harry let his grip fall lax. Malfoy, of course, took the chance and kneed him straight in the bollocks. ‘Fuck!’ In a litany of swears and curses, Harry fell to the side and wheezed, while Malfoy quickly scrambled away to safety.

‘Just— Just stay away from me!’ said Harry, furiously.

Malfoy hurled his hands in the air, equally exasperated, ‘You steal my words, Potter!’

Not a minute later, Harry’s Holly wand came spiralling out of the air, whacking him on his forehead with an audible _thonk._ ‘Ow!’ He cried as the wand clattered beside of him, rolling back and forth as gusts of air fluttered around him. Occasionally, the wind was strong enough to carry another piece of his Firebolt with it, and a part of him with it too. ‘Fuck!’

A barrage of curses continued to fall from his mouth, for Harry failed to retrieve the disappearing fragments of his Firebolt.

‘Fuck...’ 

When his curses had lost their energy, so did his body. The time he spent curled up in the grass felt like infinity, and it was only when he arrived at Madam Pomfrey’s that he realised it had gotten dark.

Goodness, she had started, Mister Potter she would continue, and then she went off about his injuries, pestering him with questions, rambling about rambunctious teenagers, about all sorts of things, really. Harry stayed quiet, offering little explanation. Madam Pomfrey looked at him with a mix of displeasure and worry, but his silence worked — she pestered him no more.

Sure, she fixed him up, Harry was grateful for that, but she couldn’t bring back Sirius, and she doubted she could make a Firebolt out of three chips of charred wood. Nobody could.

Ron and Hermione found him after dinner. Harry showed them the chips, then wordlessly went to bed, fists clenched with an anger he didn’t know what to do with.

‘Stupid Malfoy.’ Harry muttered. Perhaps Malfoy had managed to curse his Firebolt, perhaps he was there to watch it happen because he was the one that did it. Harry couldn’t be confident that Malfoy was the one that did it, but the ability to shift blame to Malfoy was his one and only consolation.

‘Stupid Malfoy…’ He repeated, before sleep tugged him into the darkness.

 


End file.
